


Excerpts from Bridget Jones' Diary: January - April 1999

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly compliant with Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason (book-verse), which concludes in 1998 with Mark having rescued Bridget from a Thai gaol, their coupling and Mark's offer to Bridget that she accompany him to Los Angeles in the new year. The following tale conveniently ignores the final twist of the book (that Mark will be sent to Thailand, not America).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Excerpts from Bridget Jones' Diary: January - April 1999

**Author's Note:**

> Profuse thanks to A and M for read through and helpful   
>  edits when fatigue got the best of my writing. Sfaith I hope you enjoy   
> this - I've been stalking your lj since I got this assignment and hope   
> to have captured a romantic Mark/Bridget story that will please you!
> 
> Written for Sandra Faith

 

 

JANUARY 1999

**Saturday, January 2 1999**

_9st 1lb (g); alcohol units 6 (poor) cigarettes 0 (v.g.) calories 1,500, orgasms (given) 4 (v.g.) orgasms received (3 v.v.g, 'tis better to give than to receive)_

**3.25am:** Woke up blurry early to incessant buzzing of Tesco's alarm clock. In state of drowsy delirium slapped hands wildly about like demonic starfish to silence alarm. Slapped not alarm but lovely Mark Darcy-shaped man, nestled in my bed.

"Bloody hell," he grunted. Which, in fairness, arm thumping chest not on most people's top ten ways to be awoken by a lover. I say most...

"Sorry! Sorry. Alarm: must turn off."

Explanation and apology all in one sleepy sentence. Expology! Will see what urban family think of pre-dawn portmanteau invention at later date.

With a groan Mark sat up in my bed, looking all dishevelled and delicious like he had been shagged senseless - which indeed he had, by me, several times - and calmly turned off the alarm.

"Bridget?"

Don't think will ever tire of hearing Mark's voice, even if he does drone on about insular intellectual things that have only passing awareness of / interest in. Especially will not tire of hearing his hoarse just-woke-up-shag-me-now voice.

"Mmm?" demurred with sex-kitten-esque purr.

"Why the fuck are we awake seven hours before we have to be at Heathrow?"

Oh. Bad start to New Year. Appears just-woke-up-and-am-not-happy voice disturbingly similar to just-woke-up-shag-me-now voice.

"Well... we need to pack, because, erm, last night we didn't..."

Speech disjointed by gloriously graphic shag flashback.

_"Do you know it's four years today since we met at the Alconbury's turkey curry buffet?" Asked this while nibbling tender flesh behind Mark's ear._

"Technically, we met at my 8th birthday party."

"Yes, but I didn't have a 'ding-dong' moment running around your paddling pool."

"Naked. Don't leave that part out." Mark grinned, pulling back slightly from oral assault on his neck to look lasciviously at me. "'Ding-dong' moment?"

"Oh, yes. Ding. Dong." Smiled winningly at remembrance of Mark's broad back and beautiful profile. "Until I saw your ridiculous Christmas cardigan, of course."

"Of course. Four years ago you were a chain-smoking, gin swilling, resolution breaking, shag-pile carpet wearing --"

"Oi!" Was difficult to be too upset when his voice dropped to that lower register which inevitably did things to my lower register.

"I can't believe that was four years ago."

"I know."

"We should probably do something to commemorate such a momentous anniversary."

"Like...?" Ground hips against Mark. 

"Like," he suggested, stilling my hips with his disciplined hands, "telling you, Bridget Jones, that you are the most fascinating woman I have ever met and that before I met you - at the turkey curry buffet - I was broken and didn't think I'd ever be whole again. By showing you I love you."

Mark lowered his mouth to mine, his lips covering my parting lips and our tongues dancing together and darting apart. Kissing Mark is like being buoyed in a beautiful warm sea, there are hidden depths and unexpected delights beneath the calm surface, but am anchored and safe and know exactly where the shore is at all times. Broke panting from his talented mouth.

"I don't know why you love me and that's why I love you. If that makes sense..."

"It makes perfect Bridget sense."

He swooped me in his capable arms and carried me to bed. 

Too dark to tell but have hunch Mark may have blushed at shared imagery "erm" involved.

"Ah," replied Mark, in manner one might expect top human rights barrister to interject at crucial 'ladies and gentleman of the jury, the prosecution has clearly not made its case' moment of trial.

" _You_ haven't packed."

"That's what I said." Honestly, mornings are not his forte.

"No, you said 'we'. I _have_ already packed."

"Oh."

"But since I'm up..." He looked hopefully toward me, his hips shifting at his insinuation.

 **9am:** Jude (sans-Richard, as is model example of non-smug married), Shazzer and Tom at airport to bid me  & Mark - best ampersand usage in the history of joining symbols, if you please - enthusiastic farewell. Am sure they are not enthused about imminent and perhaps indefinite relocation to the United States, but of changed good fortunes, and (quite rightly) the promise of free lodging in L.A.

"Now see here Bridge," said Tom, his hands gripping my shoulders as he spoke solemnly. "You must, and I mean _must_ , wriggle your way into the most fantastic parties, make a list of all the fabulous closeted celebrities you meet and tell me every scandalous name!"

"Okay," promised as eyes welled with tears. Will miss Tom. His appetite for salacious gossip as voracious as mine.

"Have a fucking amazing time. We expect emails and phone calls and won't accept you falling off the face of the fucking earth. Got it?"

"Got it." Tears may or may not have advanced from welling eyes to streaking down face.

"Good." Shaz nodded firmly, her face wobbling.

"We'll miss you Bridge," Jude added, pulling the four of us into a jumbled hug.

"It's not a life sentence in a Thai gaol." Bit lip as looked at Mark who was pretending to scan screens for departure information. "It's a life."

 **11am:** Business class is AMAZING! Can stretch legs (admittedly not particularly long) all way out in front. Mark smiled when asked if he can do the same. He could.

 **11.36:** Constant refilling of glass with champagne most appreciated.

 **1.02pm:** Watching Pierce Brosnan, uh, James Bond, on loop. Martini sipping man in tux v.g.

Ooh, more champs!

 **2.56pm:** Will write New Year's resolutions now have period of coitus interruptus to focus on self's goals.

I WILL \- make resolutions only about things I can control and not amorphous desires \- find job (that am good at and want and enjoy) \- continue to make relationship with Mark Darcy work \- drink like a fully-functional adult i.e. when with meal, champagne at celebration, not piss-up at slightest provocation \- write down one thing am thankful for each diary entry (as is championed by Oprah) \- embrace LA lifestyle \- make decisions and not drift aimlessly through year 

I WILL NOT \- smoke (as is frowned upon by Hollywood set, and society more broadly, but v frowned upon by uptight celebrities who in fact could probably use a calming ciggie) \- eat my feelings \- drink my feelings \- write down examples of thankful things that require double negatives (no negatives, or negativity, allowed) \- worry about things beyond immediate sphere of influence \- be so obsessed with books that include discourse on spheres of influence \- mistake fantasy for reality

 **1.25pm:** Time has disconcertingly gone backwards and have landed in LA at local time earlier than last entry into diary records. Champagne and changed time zones should never be crossed.

Mark collected car from airport rental and drove us - in manner of movie stars - to our new home. I like a sentence that includes me, Mark and home. It should be used as an example of ideal sentence construction in GCE's for years to come. 

Breaking news: I LOVE LA. It's the middle of winter and it's sunny! 

Breaking breaking news: House is bloody enormous. Is like saying Jaws is just a shark or An Affair to Remember is just a movie. 'House' doesn't fully capture just how palatial the premises are: there is a garden out front (hope home comes with gardener...), tennis court and swimming pool out back (hope pool doesn't come with pool boy, do not need temptation to ruin perfectly good to start to new year three days in). 

Despite best efforts to stave off jet lag the pair of us collapsed unceremoniously upon couch / floating island of stuffed furniture in middle of living room after traipsing through new home. 

**Thursday 7 January, 1999**

_9st 1lb (g); alcohol units 1 (v. mature) cigarettes 0 (v.g.) thoughts of cigarettes / cigars 100+ (not v.g.) calories 1,200_

**10am:** Mark at work. Am watching trial of President Clinton before US Senate. If two thirds agree with House of Reps, Clinton will be removed from Office. 

Partially interested in trial as Clinton attractive - not as attractive as Kennedy, but then, who is? - mostly interested in sexual perversity and suppression of sexual anxiety in American culture. Am fascinated by whole sorry story. Think will freelance piece: Cigarettes may kill you, but cigars will lose you elected office. Will work on catchier title.

 **10.36:** Cuban Cigar Crisis.

 **10.49:** The Final Blow. 

**1pm:** Walked along Santa Monica boulevard, impressed by locals zipping past on rollerblades. Fear I would not so much zip as slip should attempt be made to don skates.

Slightly scared of ring dedicated for the use of body builders. Thought one was winking at in me lewd fashion. Unfortunately, only sand in his eye. Perils of beachside exercise.

 **7pm:** Mark home. Told him of potential journalistic pursuit over take-away dinner.

"So are you off to Washington?"

"Why would I need to go to Washington?" Am only just un-jetlagged now, am not likely to jet quarter-way round the world anytime soon.

Mark laughed around a forkful of pad se ew. "Because that's where the action is."

Was thoughtful for moment. 

"No," I replied decisively. V. proud of decisiveness and encouraged by progress of new year's resolutions being upheld after initial list made. Go me. "I'll write a subjunctive piece. 'What would happen if ban on presidential gifts?' No cigars, no crisis..."

"No story," Mark interrupted.

Carried on unperturbed. "I'm not reporting on the trial or even the consequences of the whole impeachment palaver. I'm looking at the lead-up and the what-ifs."

Speared piece of honey drenched chicken on fork to punctuate articulate precis of potential article.

FEBRUARY 1999

**Wednesday 10 February, 1999**

_9st 0lb; alcohol units 0 (v.g.) cigarettes 0 (v.g.) calories 1,550 (not bad)_

Mark had barely walked through door before announcing: "I'm needed in New York."

"Now?"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh. Will you be home for tea tomorrow night?" (Mark and tea and home could be another contender for GCE English papers.)

"I'm afraid I'll be gone the entire week."

Mind calculated date of Mark's intended absence with a speed that would impress Steve Jobs-like paragon of processing. Mark would be away for Valentine's day. That day most scorned by singletons and revered by couples would be spent solo despite non-solo status. I would eat dinner alone, again. Was shattered.

"Oh." Disappointment poorly concealed.

"Which is why," he paused as he reached into his pinstripe jacket and removed an envelope. "I'd like you to join me this weekend."

Envelope contained airline ticket from Los Angeles to New York.

Mark Darcy, despite rumours to the contrary, is the most wonderful man any woman could ever possibly want to have.

**Sunday 14 February 1999 (Saint Valentine's Day)**

_8st 12lb (vg); alcohol units 7 (sublimely decadent) cigarettes 2 (post-coital cigarettes only count for 1/2) calories 1,000* (*not including dinner)_

Mark claims not to care about the tosh and bother of Valentine's Day. He's almost convincing in his disdain for the 'crass over-commercialisation' of the 'holiday'. Yet for all his words, all his blokey bluster, it's obvious to anyone finely attuned to the singleton psyche (as the poster-girl is wont to be) that he does care. A lot actually.

If you didn't care about romance you wouldn't attempt to worship at the alter of _La Grenouille_. But that is precisely what Mark arranged. _La Grenouille_ is more than any article, any review, any half-heard conversation could hope to adequately capture or convey. Fragrant flowers adorn each table in cut crystal vases, paintings are carefully hung beneath half chandeliers, the space buzzes like a garden party and the air is positively charmed with the promise of the evening. Then there's the food. Divine is the least of the adjectives to describe the experience.

Somewhere between the _bisque de homard_ and _le caneton aux cerises flambe au kirsch_ Mark told me a story of a High Court of Love.

"A love court? That's a bloody brilliant idea."

"Well I'd say it's an antiquated idea that appealed to writers of early English Renaissance literature, not really a tenable option today."

"I thought you said the court was a fifteenth century Parisian creation?"

"I did. The idea of the court is around then, but it's likely a literary device not a historical anecdote."

"Shame. There should be laws for love."

"You'd like to see a dozen women pass judgment on whether rules of love were followed."

"An all female bench? I'm liking this High Court of Love more and more."

"Thinking of reestablishing it are you?"

"I'll run the bloody thing!"

"Justice Jones..."

"Ooh, I like the sound of that."

Mark leaned toward me, his voice a low rumble. "You know what? So do I."

Plates were cleared and replaced with an exquisite serving of _les grenouilles provencale_. 

Asked Mark what rules of love were in hypothetical history of courtly love.

"The first stage, or the first move if you will, is nothing more than a glance. A simple signal of eyes across a room."

"Step one - cruising."

"The second stage, is admiring from afar."

"Interesting. Step two sounds suspiciously like stalking."

Mark laughed. "The third stage requires the declaration of passionate devotion swiftly followed by the fourth stage, rejection of said declaration."

"Well now it's just sounding like a medieval revision of The Rules."

Mark merely arched one impossibly sexy eyebrow at mention of nineties dating bible.

"Do you want to know the rest of the rules?"

"Do they lead to happily ever after?"

"Not exactly. There's more wooing and rejection, depression and repressed desire, heroic acts that win the lady' heart, secret sex that ultimately leads to unending subterfuge to avoid the detection of the coupling."

"Sounds like the ghosts of boyfriends past. I think I'll pass actually."

As final meal of evening presented - _les crepes soufflés au contreau_ \- thoughts were dominated about how this was the best ever Valentine's Day, spent in the best company. Day could only have been more perfect if had decided against tummy holding / thigh shaping underpants that restricted full expansion of stomach to better fit gastronomic indulgence.

MARCH 1999

**Sunday 21 March, 1999 (My birthday)**

Am not bitter that am 37, unmarried, childless, and (technically) unemployed as not in my personality.

Am instead embracing new sense of maturity for today I will converse (winningly) with celebrities.

Memories of 1998 - homicidal stalker types, too-good-to-be-true boys who turn out to be recreational drug enthusiasts that leave you to rot in a Thai gaol - ebbing away on tide of good karmic will as am celebrating birthday on the red carpet reporting on the 71st Academy Awards. Life is beautiful. (Have soft spot for Benigni's film, as share sentiment.)

 **8.36pm:** The awards ceremony went for more than four and a half fucking hours. Positive of this is that phoned Mark and late finish means he can join after party. Huzzah!

 **10.40pm:** At IT after awards party hosted by person too famous to name accompanied by outrageously wonderful boyfriend.

Mark brushed fringe across forehead, so had unobstructed view of his dreamy self. Sigh.

"What's that sigh about?" Mark's hand still cupped face. He has the loveliest hands.

"I think that was a contented sigh."

"Ah," he answered. "I've read about them."

"I think this has been, without question, the best birthday in my not-so-short history of birthdays."

"Better than blue soup?"

"Much better."

"Better than running naked around my paddling pool."

"That was _your_ birthday, not mine. And yes, better than that. You great big perv." Smiled crookedly at Mark's teasing.

"Better than the birthday I asked you to marry me?"

Huh?

"You never proposed to me on my birthday, or yours, or ever..." Heart thumped with increasing fervor like Oscar orchestra being instructed to up tempo to signal speech wrap up time.

"No?" asked Mark with a tender look of near bemusement. "How remiss of me."

The sight of Mark - the beautiful, sexy fuddy-duddy who tries ever so hard not to be the centre of social attention for fear of embarrassment - on bended knee, in the middle of a party swollen with egos, holding my hands was beyond description.

"I love you Bridget and would love nothing more than to make a lifetime of 'best ever' memories with you." He paused to take a deep breath. Breathing, luckily, instinctive as lost conscious ability to control bodily functions by this stage. "Bridget Jones, will you marry me?"

Nodded in teary, mute astonishment my agreement.

"Is that a 'yes'?" Mark laughed as I nodded again. "Who'd have thought proposing was a remedy for verbal incontinence."

Admonishment on tip of my tongue silenced by Mark cleverly kissing me much to the delight of a small crowd of onlookers. Joseph Fiennes (much overlooked in swathe of accolades otherwise awarded to Shakespeare In Love production) led a celebratory charge of champagne drinking in our honour. 

Best proposal ever.

**Monday 22 March 1999**

_8st 10lb; alcohol units 0 (although still feeling tipsy after yesterday) cigarettes 0 calories 1,100_

Am no longer singleton. Am fiancee! Which, while not the antithesis of singledom - am not smug married - does involve ascending from hellish depths of singledom to the shiny purgatory of being affianced. Marriage must therefore be the heavenly reward for services as singleton. Actually, may well be sainted for such services, was martyr to cause so long. Will look into sanctification of self.

Wonder if shagging cancels Sainthood opportunities. While am saintly, am not going to forgo regular access to Mark and his ability to send me to higher planes, so to speak, to appease Church.

 **7.23pm:** Beatification requires two miracles and a mystery. 

Will change voicemail on mobile to reflect my impending Saintliness. 

**11.34pm:** Tom, non-practicing Catholic, left scathing message on mobile about my general ineligibility to be Canonised. Tom pointed out following holes in planned Sainthood:

1\. am not religious (think this is discriminatory and not in spirit of Sainthoodedness) 2\. have not lived holy life (proceeded to list many unholy things of past) 3\. am not dead (v.g.)

Shazzer offered several, choice, expletive-ridden suggestions as to a "mystery" I may have performed...

They're clearly jealous am with committed man whom will vow to spend rest of life with. 

**11.59pm:** Spoke to Mark. Will make more of an effort to be sensitive to needs of those who are not as fortunate as to have man as marvellous as Mark Darcy to marry. (Clearly, this is further evidence of my saintliness, but being true object of veneration, will not rub in face of non-believers / sad singletons.)

Will refrain from posing rhetorical religious questions in semi-public sphere of phone message bank in future. Ooh, should change email signature block!

APRIL 1999

**Tuesday 6 April 1999**

_8st 10lb (v.v.g); alcohol units 0 (am not drinking feelings) cigarettes 0 (am not reliant on sweet nicotine hit to overcome adversity) calories 1,200 (am not eating feelings)_

Have gut plummeting feeling that Mark is anxious about wedding. More anxious than normal pre-wedding jitters/cold feet would dictate is acceptable. FUCK! 

Need moment to find inner poise.

Have come to delayed realisation that Mark is most likely (and unnecessarily) wary of the whole white wedding deal after Daniel Cleaver-connived disaster of previous wedding. Must convince Mark that I am nothing like his cruel raced ex-wife. Despite having shagged Cleaver on a somewhat regular and systematic basis for the best part of the last two years - best in the quantitative not the qualitative sense - am nothing like ex.

Must explain to Mark that want I want more than anything is to be married to him and that wedding is simply event that facilitates that. Do not want great sodding castle in Scotland with every branch or our respective family trees in attendance. Do not want day to be stressful social / career climbing exercise where church / castle /great hall is filled with people we do not know or do not like. Just want him. Just as I assume he just wants me.

**Saturday 10 April 1999**

_8st 9lb (maturity has somehow had transformative effect on weight); alcohol units 2 (celebratory) cigarettes 0 (not even post-coital) calories 1,300_

Together Mark and I chose our perfect, non-gargantuan Las Vegas Chapel (of Love) to wed in. Was not gaudy monstrosity as Mark had feared but modest, charming part-time house of worship slightly apart from strip of quickie registries. 

We chose the simple vows stumbled upon in Vanity Fair, quite by chance, the other day. Holding Mark's hands, looking into his eyes so filled with love or awe or something just so Mark, I said the words that would transform my most desired fantasy into reality.

"I, Bridget Jones, take you, Mark Darcy, to be my husband. All that I am I give to you, and all that I have I share with you. I promise to be a caring and supportive wife who will encourage and inspire you to become all that you can be. I will stand through the best and the worst, through the difficult and the easy. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love today and for all the rest of our days. This is my solemn vow."

The exchanges of vows, the blessing of our celebrant, the obligatory photo and signing of certificates buzzed past me like someone was fast-forwarding my life. Eventually day returned to normal speed. Wish could pause memory of best elopement ever.

Returned to hotel room and despite wanting nothing more than to ravish and be ravished by my husband (insides all tingly at thought) Mark and I showed great constraint to give each other gifts.

Mark removed from the hidden inside pocket of his suit jacket a powder blue box tied neatly with blue ribbon. Eagerly untied gift to reveal a necklace with platinum pendant. The disc was engraved with the words "silent unspoken memories" around the circular edge. Mark took the necklace from my hands and moved behind me to fasten its fiddly clasp for me.

His breath was hot on my neck as he explained the inscription. 

"'Silent unspoken memories' is, I think, a more articulate way to express my desire to make best ever memories with you. It's from a poem that reminded me of us."

"What poem?" 

I turned in his arms to face him so he could see his gift resting beneath the base of my throat. Our eyes were fixed as he spoke.

"What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined together to strengthen each other in all labor, to minister to each other in all sorrow, to share with each other in all gladness, to be one with each other in the silent unspoken memories?"

On tip toes I leaned up to Mark's mouth and gently kissed him.

"There's nothing better," I assured him.

Remembered what mum told me about velveteen rabbit. That was when I first _knew_ I loved Mark in spite of everything or because of everything because _really_ loving Mark didn't happen all at once but it did just happen. 

Retrieved my gift to Mark from bag and handed the tan box to him. He gingerly lifted the lid and removed the first edition copy of The Velveteen Rabbit from its box. Bit my lip in anticipation as he opened the book to the page I'd slipped a strip of leather to mark my favourite passage.

He smiled as he read the page to himself and then looked at me before reading out loud:

"It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"Mark, that's exactly--" I may or may not have been an undignified, weepy mess and unable to finish sentence unassisted.

"I know." Mark placed the book back in the box and laid it on the bed. He hugged me and in his warm embrace he promised, "Bridget, you'll always be Real to me."

*

This is last journal entry as Bridget Jones: tragic spinster.

Next journal entry will be as Bridget Darcy: married woman.

 


End file.
